Manly Hands
by Olfactory-Ventriloquism
Summary: How Fear Her should have ended. The Doctor decides to ignore his fears of the future and instead focus on what is possible in the present


Disclaimer: College students don't own Doctor Who, it is a well known fact.

AN: Well, I'm all about serious plots and well timed revelations, but sometimes a bit of random fluff needs to be aired. In "Fear Her," The Doctor encounters one of the places that a child disappeared and says to Rose. "Look at the hairs on the back of my manly, hairy hand." And a plunny was born. I've been told to say that fluff is good.

* * *

It started as a running joke, one more thing that made anyone who met the two of them feel like training wheels on the bike of Lance Armstrong: unnecessary, outside of the action, and only making a fool of themselves by being there. After watching the ashes of the Sycorax float from the heavens, and then with the revealing time with the disembodied mind of Cassandra switching between both of them, whispering their secrets to each other, they had decided to spend some time in the TARDIS, getting to know the new Doctor the old fashioned way. Not by means of the "Last Human's" shared intimate knowledge. 

Sitting in the library on a plush burgundy velvet couch likely modeled on or stolen from the Victorian era, Rose asked him questions, he told her stories and jokes and experimented a bit with his new body. He found that building a fire in the nearby fireplace to be easier, though that may have just been the practice he'd had at it since Rose had come aboard.

This new body was alarmingly tactile, they soon realized. _Not tactile_, Rose quickly amended to herself, _sensual in the original meaning_. He would sniff then taste almost anything, including walls. Music was more likely to be heard filtering from the console room as he worked. He watched her more, staring in a way that was gentler than but just as hungry as the previous Doctor's gaze had been. And he liked to touch more. He would brush her hair from her face if only a single strand had slipped down, and hugs were more frequent and longer. He could hardly hold her hand more than his previous self had, but he held it with a gentle, reverent caress in place of the need which he had conveyed beforehand.

Rose loved the Doctor who had first taken her hand and told her to run, but she found herself just as deeply in love with the man who wore trainers with a three-piece suit. As they lounged on that couch which was more comfortable than it looked and sipped tea, the Doctor found that he rather liked a bit of milk in his now. Slowly, they both felt the walls of awkwardness and uncertainty fade. At first a conscious effort to continue the conversation was required, but it wasn't long before the smiles and laughs were genuine, and they both snuggled on the couch with unabashed ease. A natural lull formed in the conversation as Rose lay with her head against his shoulder. She took his hand in both of hers and examined it.

"It feels different." She said with a fond smile, her fingers entwining with his.

"Good different or bad?" Though he, too, smiled, there was an anxious overtone in his voice. Rose's brow wrinkled in thought.

"I like it. I liked it before, and it's not the same, but I like it." She tilted her head to smile at him. Their gazes met and held. Both were warm and open, and the Doctor forgot that he needed to break the contact before she saw too deeply into him. "It still feels…right." Rose glimpsed an emotion that was normally kept hidden peeping out at her, and the whispering of Cassandra's imparted knowledge identified it as something she would never have dared to hope for from the Doctor. She watched as he began to hide it from her view, so she broke the intense stare. She instead looked back down at his hand to let him collect himself. She wasn't sure that he was ready to take that step. She straightened his fingers and laid her hand palm to palm against his. "It's bigger. Longer fingers." She glanced back up to him with a grin that dripped innuendo.

"All the better to fix the TARDIS with." He responded cheekily.

"Fixing things: the intergalactic hobby for all men." Rose muttered.

"That's me. Even my hands are big and manly." The Doctor quipped. And another inside joke was born.

When she first met the Doctor, Rose had thrown off her restrictions and with them almost all of her ties to the life and people she had known. After the events on Platform One, Rose had felt isolated from everything she knew. Sensing that, the Doctor had thrown her a lifeline by immersing her in a crowd, in life, but he hadn't realized that by doing so, he joined himself to her. Of course, more near death experiences had occurred, and the two companions revealed more of themselves to the other. Something which helped the human cope and the Time Lord, unexpectedly, heal. Something which they both needed. Soon, their shared experiences were a means by which to feel connected despite the outside forces which so frequently tried to separate them. They held hands when they couldn't talk; they reminded each other of their affections by these lighthearted references when they couldn't touch. Whenever they could do both, of course, they were at peace.

The peace, however, couldn't last.

The Doctor's confidence had been shaken by the Beast's prophecy, though he refused to admit it to Rose. He knew that Rose had been scared, had believed it, and her fear had only abated because she trusted the Doctor when he promised her that it had lied. He pretended that he knew for a fact that it lied. Though the truth was that he hoped, wished, even would have prayed, if he believed in a higher power, that it had lied. He found himself planning their visits only for places that should be safe, ignoring injured timelines clamoring for attention. After all, if she never again went into battle, she couldn't die in it. He often got it wrong, of course, but he didn't stop trying.

He could feel it. With every planet they visited, every world they liberated, every smile, every hug, a storm approached. This time, it wasn't coming for him; its target was Rose. Since he first took her hand in Henricks, the Doctor had feared losing her, even as he knew that it was inevitable. That was why he tried to avoid her, until she saved him, and he couldn't hide from his premonition that she would be important to his survival, probably in a multitude of ways. But he had always been so careful not to cross that line, terrified that he wouldn't be able to withstand the loss of her if he did. Now, that loss was imminent. And, despite his painful control, he knew that there was every chance that when he lost her, he wouldn't find a way through the devastation she was bound to leave behind her.

And now, the Doctor stood before 18,000 people, holding the Olympic torch. This flame that these humans had projected so much love and hope and courage into. And though it warmed his hand, the Doctor longed for something that radiated its own hope, courage, and love. He longed for Rose. This victory was possible only because she hadn't given up. This victory was hers, and he hoped that she could see it. The Doctor let out an enthusiastic whoop to the crowd, thrilled to be alive, thrilled that he had her, and wanting everyone, especially Rose to know it. To perfect the night, Rose brought him cake with edible ball bearings sprinkled on the top.

But the fear returned, and he gripped Rose's hand tight in his. Tonight, he had said, was a night of finding lost things, but could he find his courage? Could he remember how to love? Wordlessly, the Doctor led her back to the TARDIS, and when he pushed her into the jump seat and pressed his lips against hers, he realized that the doubt was baseless. She had reminded him what it was to love every day that he had known her. Loving someone from behind your own walls, and loving them as they deserve is merely a matter of proximity. Yes, the Doctor knew how to love.

Rose leaned into his kiss, hungry for the touch that he had denied both of them for too long. And when she swiped her tongue over his lower lip, the Doctor eagerly opened beneath her, invading her mouth with confidence. Under his expert caress, Rose began to understand why all those corny romance novels her mother read mentioned going weak at the knees. Rose wasn't even standing, and she still managed to feel weak at the knees. The Doctor kneaded her breasts before divesting her of the denim jacket she had been wearing. When he felt her fumble at his belt, he reached down and stilled her hands.

"Not like this." He rasped. The pain of rejection lanced through Rose's eyes, but he smiled and kissed her again lingering in her warmth. "Not here." He clarified. Rose grinned and eagerly allowed herself to be led to his bedroom.

Her golden hair fanned out upon the burgundy pillows leant visual evidence to a fact he had proof of daily. Rose was, indeed an angel. Someone who carried him when he was broken. The Doctor trailed kisses down her jaw and throat His tongue played where her skin met the collar of her shirt. She pushed his jacket off before pulling at her own shirt.

He hadn't allowed this to happen for too long. She would be torn from his side soon, and he'd gone without her fiery touch, only daring to dream about it, for longer than humanly possible. Granted, he wasn't human, but the same basic desires were present in him, so much more than in his ancestors. He tried to slow it down but Rose was having none of it. She fiddled with his buttons and soon his shirt joined the growing pile of discarded clothes on the floor.

In an attempt to give himself the distance that would allow him to make this perfect, the Doctor pulled himself way, much to Rose's rather audible protestations, and toed off both shoes and socks before divesting Rose of the same. He played with her feet, exploring the way she squirmed when he ran a finger along her instep. Rose sat up and lanced a hand through his hair, holding his attention firm.

"Apparently, I haven't made myself clear. I want you. Now." She stated in decisive tones. Their remaining clothes disappeared as quickly as if he'd had a defabricator mounted on the wall. The Doctor wanted to taste her, every inch, every nuance of flavor, but Rose's fingers stroking along the underside of his straining shaft heralded the urgency under which he was operating.

His fingers slipped between her lips and found her clit, already hardened with excitement. A few circles and a pinch later, Rose's hips were bucking off the bed. As moisture began to flow, the Doctor positioned himself and filled her in one breathtaking motion. He took a moment to adjust to her quivering warmth, before beginning a rhythm that had both of them crying out.

It really had been too long. The Doctor knew he couldn't hold out much longer. Again his fingers nudged her clit, tweaking, massaging and flicking it until her eyes rolled back in her head and she came, screaming his name. Her convulsions allowed him to release, spilling into her. He collapsed onto the bed beside her, and smiled as he lifted his fingers to his mouth, still wet from her juices. She watched him as he hungrily licked them as though she were so much jam. A smile arced her lips as she kissed him.

"You know. I really love your manly hands." She told him mischievously. The Doctor laughed and nuzzled her ear before recapturing her lips. Outside, the storm may rage, but his heart was finally at peace.


End file.
